


What I Couldn't Be

by easierthanland



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 01:09:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1050724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/easierthanland/pseuds/easierthanland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He returns to the lake where his king’s bones lie beneath the water. This is his annual pilgrimage, his penance, completed countless times in search of redemption.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What I Couldn't Be

//

_And I swear I will protect you or die at your side._

Words soft, yellowed, curling with age. Creased and ragged from years of delicate handling. Carried in the back of his throat and preserved as a prayer. Tucked into the folds of his kerchief, the creases of his tunic. When he closes his eyes he imagines them written in black ink across his palm. Hands curl into fists instinctively; _I will protect you_. When he opens his eyes the words take the form of string tied around his index finger ( _I made you a promise, remember?_ )

When he tries to speak, the words rush forth, burning like bile, choking him until he coughs them out; they lie at his feet, swollen with guilt. There they sit, staring at him accusingly. _I swear._ These words, though safe inside, turn ugly and shameful in their hypocrisy when spoken. Reaching down, he gathers them up, tipping them into his mouth. Wincing, he swallows them like shards of glass and lets them settle in his throat. He laughs in spite of himself. He was once the most powerful sorcerer the world had ever seen; now he begs for mercy from his own memories.

The stuff of legend.

 

//

 

In the beginning, he marked the passing days in a book kept under his bed. Pages rippled by water, lovingly stroked with ink. When he reached the last of a hundred ink-streaked pages, he waited. He even went to the lake. Now, he shuts his eyes against the memory of losing hope as the sun set and the moon rose and the glass surface remained smooth and perfect. It was then that he decided to give in to time and accept the possibility that his king may not return. He wouldn’t allow distractions to raise his hopes like that ridiculous book had. Sometimes he regrets hurling the book into the lake, but mostly he doesn’t care.

Time went on. A thousand years pass, though he’s lost count. He doesn’t age and he considers this an unwarranted cruelty. Forever young like so many of his slain friends. Though many people have tried to befriend the recluse, he will not allow himself the company of others. How can he, when he broke his vow— _or die at your side_.

Solitude is his punishment and he carries out his sentence as a dutiful prisoner.

 

//

 

If he concentrates, he can recall fractured memories. _Kind blue eyes crinkled in laughter. Breastplates flashing gold in late summer sun. Crimson pennants snapping in autumn wind. The scent of burning torches in dark caves._ Years of experience have taught him to brace himself against memory, to expect the hurricane’s force as it passes through his chest. Echoes of his king ring in his ears. Sometimes he catches himself turning to look over his shoulder as the ghosts of his king’s words pass by his ear. They said they would build a kingdom, but the king is dead and the sorcerer is so very tired.

It’s said that grief is only a visitor, but he has allowed it to make a home in his heart.

 

//

 

 _Our kingdom._ The thought brings him to his knees.

 

//

 

He returns to the lake where his king’s bones lie beneath the water. This is his annual pilgrimage, his penance, completed countless times in search of redemption. The moon lights his path. For several hundred years the lake has remained still and untouched and as he crests the hill he expects the same unchanging landscape he has seen so many times before. Though this time is different, and what he sees forces him to a sudden halt.

A figure sits on the beach, looking out towards the water. A pile of rusted armour lies by his side. He knows. There’s no need to call out or second-guess. _I swear_. The air in his lungs rushes out of him as the words in his throat constrict and contract, threatening to dislodge.

His legs are weak as he approaches the figure and he stumbles with hands outstretched to catch himself. Hands that have carried swords, torches, friends. Hands that have helped and healed and held. It takes all of his strength, but he walks to the figure and stands next to him.

“Arthur…” the sacred name drops from his lips.

It’s almost too much for him to bear as Arthur turns his head to look up at Merlin and suddenly he doesn’t know where to look first. Damp hair, faded shirt, pale skin, kind, clear, crisp blue eyes. In that moment, a thousand years of waiting are reduced to a second and Arthur’s presence is so very familiar that his chest aches. He can’t help but bring his hand to his heart, covering it protectively.

“It’s about time.” Arthur’s voice is teasing but sincere. In another life, Merlin might have matched him with a similar reply ( _I could say the same to you_ ), but at the sound of Arthur’s voice he sinks to his knees and leans his head against Arthur’s chest. The exhaustion of a thousand years pours out of him and his hands feel heavy and soiled with time. The tears he has not allowed himself to cry since he cast the boat from the shores of Avalon slide down his face and land on Arthur’s shirt. He feels himself being encircled by strong, reassuring arms as Arthur presses his lips to Merlin’s head. They stay like this on the beach as morning light begins to infuse the sky and Merlin’s tears dry on Arthur’s shirt.

He’d like to imagine that they could stay like this on the beach in an endless embrace, but there’s something that must be said, something that has haunted and hounded Merlin for centuries. “Arthur,” his voice thick with remorse, words stilted, not knowing how to begin. “I don’t… I never meant—for it to end that way. I swore to you, but—” Fresh tears begin to fall as he feels the words in the back of his throat begin to stir. He inhales slowly to continue, but is cut short by Arthur’s arms tightening their grip around him.

“Merlin,” Arthur begins, but Merlin moves his hands up to cover his ears because he doesn’t deserve to hear Arthur speak his name. Gently, Arthur wraps his fingers around Merlin’s wrists and pulls his hands down. “Listen to me. It’s time to stop blaming yourself. We can finish what we started.” Arthur’s words aren’t much, but Merlin can feel the promise that has been lodged in his throat begin to dissolve and disintegrate as Arthur absolves him. Grounded by a pair of sure, steady, soothing hands he feels a handful of words settle against the back of his teeth. He knows forgiving himself won’t be that easy, but right now— _at your side_ —he can almost imagine the possibility.

 _Our kingdom_. The thought brings a smile to his face.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Roo Panes' song, "Once."


End file.
